The crumbling pedestal
by Crimson Siyrean
Summary: What if Christine had left Raoul for Erik? Would it really be for Erik? After Erik's death, Christine reflects upon her time with him and the life he gave her. One shot, EC but Leroux based.


**Disclaimer:** Ido not own Phantom of the Opera

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**The crumbling pedestal**

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A soft wind brushed across her limp hair, as she stood secluded in a far corner of the somber graveyard. She had expected it to rain, rain seemed fitting when a life was to be mourned. Yet it spitefully refused to rain and instead the sun bid the birds to sing and coax the local Parisians to the street in a display of life, which Christine found decidedly inappropriate. This was a time to mourn a life and reflect upon the shattered pieces, which were left of hers.

It had been an interesting past few years, well not a few when you really considered it, fourteen would be a more accurate number to ascribe. It had been an interesting fourteen years for the young, impressionable Christine Daae. Indeed she had left with the dashing and charming Vicomte de Chagny but her tortured mind and conscious would not let it end with that, the poor angels heart broke when she left her phantom, her Angel of Music.

It did not take long for the girl to realize what it was she had given up, the gift of music, the power to transcend worldly boundaries, the inspiration to allow the true gift of her life take flight. Christine knew her purpose in life, her gift to the world, why should a childhood crush dash away such dreams she had harbored for so many years?

It happened not long after the hour of midnight, she slunk back into the night, into her salvation and into the arms of her ever-awaiting angel. He welcomed her as though she were only retiring after a more exhausting night of performance and led her silently to the room that had remained ever hers.

"Never, Christine, shall the binds of the world above hold your winged spirit down. Never shall the rays of the sun drain the music of your soul. Never will the spirit of your voice be wasted upon those too mundane to appreciate its true beauty."

He spoke these words to her as he watched her lay on his mother's boat-shaped bed. Her eyes fluttering shut at the promise of a new life, a life where only music existed and she were the answer to the call of his sorrowful angelic voice, a reprise to a story, which never deserved to touch the earth.

Her new life was everything she had hoped it would be and more. Day after day they spent their hours in the unending bliss of music, his voice reached to hers and hers replied in earnest to each of his unspoken demands. Their melodies sent them to a world out side the opera house cellar, they were no longer creatures of nature and their perfect tones would stroke each other in blissful melodies, as their bodies never would.

Still, despite the beauty his music would bring to her spirit, Christine could not bare his sight, those grotesque features, that noseless face, which would perverse her dreams and her sanctuary of song. Their song would rise and there would be nothing else, but when those moments died and silence brought reality upon its wing, Christine would shy away. How could she not? She spent so much time in the heavens, how could she be expected to endure the devils face when she once again returned to earths embrace?

But even if she could not hear his song, she could listen to his music. If she could not be lost in the rapture that was his voice, Erik would play, and melody would once again fill her void and remind her of the great privilege it was to be an angel's wife.

Christine woke up to silence, not an odd thing, but one day it struck her much more than it had in a past. The silence was an echo of a life that would have been and she wondered at this life, a life without music.

"My Angel, Christine, I have kept you caged for too long. I shall show you the world and dazzle your senses. You shall see the world of silence I have seen before you came to me and when you have sated your thirst we shall return to our haven with jewels befitting an empress and in the cloths of the gods."

For years they traveled the world in secret and Erik showed her a finery Christine had only dreamed of. Experienced, tasted, touched, lived the life only fairytales told of from just the skirting edge of shadows, and through all this Christine cherished her luck. How could life with Raoul ever compare to this? An endless stream of sensations. It was not life; it was harmony. And when they returned, the music began, renewed afresh in their impervious catacombs.

How could Christine say life was repetitive or dull after all those years of travel? How could she say something felt lacking in such a pristine world where Erik saw to and met her every need? Christine simply attributed this hollowness she felt to her lack of children, a trick of nature and nothing more. Why should she desire children? What could they possibly bring to her? She would not touch Erik, and Erik would not touch her, an angel would not wish to be defiled by such and touch.

For a time, Erik seemed distraught, distant, and restrained around Christine. Unsure of what she had done to bring on her angels reluctant disapproval, the woman sung with all the power of her soul in the hopes to reawaken his troubled song. She sung at last till she pushed herself to her peak, and Christine's voice cracked. Erik collapsed to the floor in tears mumbling incoherently.

Warily Christine knelt beside the grieving man. "Erik? Erik, I promise, I'll do better next time. I swear."

"No use, no use it's gone." The man shook his head with his hands fiercely rubbing at his eyes. "That man. That simpleton of a musician. That fool! He must have done this. Ruined you, the perfect instrument, with his impatience."

"Erik?" the woman asked, backing away slowly.

"Your father Christine. Who else could've done this to you? It must have been him and his, _teaching_."

"I'll try again Erik, really I'll try harder. I just wasn't controlled enough, that's all."

The man gave out a short laugh. "No Christine, that is not all. I've been hearing it in your voice long before now, I only hoped… I prayed it wouldn't come to this."

"I'll sing something simpler. I won't strain myself, that will be better won't it? Come, play something lively so I can show you, you'll be proud, I'll show you."

"No Christine, I couldn't bare it. Hearing your voice these past weeks, months really, have been nothing short of torture to my ears. I can't hear you sing with out remember what you once were, I cannot hear this mockery that was once an angels voice. No Christine, do not sing. Now I shall sing for the both of us. That is all we need."

Christine could feel the tears prick at the back of her eyes. "You are forbidding me to sing?" she asked slowly, feeling as though she were only a small child.

Erik barely looked up at her, lost in his grief. "You are a broken instrument Christine. Surely you must have noticed, _I_ noticed. No, do not sing. Not unless you wish such torments upon your poor unhappy Erik." And with that, he left to his room and the sounds of the organ soon fill the deep chambers.

Again the silence seemed to push at her world. True to his word, Erik filled her life his own song but Christine was now all too aware of her spectator status. Oh she reveled in the sound of Erik's voice but no longer could she partake in that delirious bliss that had once been ecstasy within their world of catacombs and shadows. It now seemed her place had transitioned to that of an amusing pet to her masked keeper.

But this really did not matter to her; it was ultimately only her song that was lost to her. After all, her purpose as the phantoms companion was no less valid. And he was good to her, what else could she wish for? So many women starved on the streets, or worked in harsh labor conditions, struggling to survive, or support those they loved. Christine was free of such worries. She lived, she was alive, she was there just beneath the surface of Paris's streets, with the greatest man she had ever known.

Such a mystery he was, with his expressionless mask and imposing costume of black. A figure of power and protection, an eternal puzzle to dazzle her perceptions. Someone she would only know, someone to unravel, someone only she could possess. Familiarity could make even the most enigmatic figure common, and he had given this gift to her. It was she who had the honor of uncovering the person he was and seeing beyond the façade he had protected himself in. He was only human after all, a simple man once those imposed complexities were discarded for unabashed comfort. And he was good company.

Erik's voice sang out within those stonewalls of subterranean exile, within her world of silence, within a life of reliable comfort. With their pleasant routine, Christine was able to slip into her worlds of fantasy while Erik created a melodic tapestry for an inspiring backdrop, or otherwise spent his time amusing his wife's pretty features.

"Ah, Christine, my Angel, how I wish I could capture your true beauty in the notes I write, but then God would never allow one of his fair creatures to be seen by those who truly can not hear the song. Each day, nature steals yet another youthful breath from your chest and like all flowers I know you must wilt. But I will keep you, Christine." The man's twisted lips smiled then. "I shall keep you and remember you and treat you as I always have. I know you are still an angel."

A bony hand approached her, causing Christine to stiffen as it stopped just short of a caress. Instead the fingers recoiled, gracefully curving against the air by her face in a languid stroke. She felt herself sway and almost leaned into that promise of touch but the hand shot away, as though it had been burned.

"My Christine, my _Angel_."

Erik was not the kind of man to admit to weakness or age. Life was perfect at last and he would not disturb that which he earned with the failings health and the results of a life built upon burden. When Christine found the body, she did not cry nor move at all, she simply stared in silent comfort, trembling ever so slightly. Angel's don't die. Men die, woman die, she too would die, but not Angels. Angels simply exist.

The heat of the sun fell heavily across the back of her neck. Her head was bowed in silence to the small marking of a grave while a bird sung merrily overhead. She could hear the laughter of a small child not far off while its mother encouraged his frivolous endeavor.

Money was not in abundance and the house beyond the lake, no longer appropriate. She would need work and a proper home. But more than likely, she would need help.

Christine looked over to the simply dressed young woman now holding her son tightly in her arms. Perhaps she would know where to find work? Perhaps she knew of rooms to rent or even a place for the night?

Christine sighed, glancing back at the piteous grave. Was there even any point anymore? There was nothing in this life for her; she had always known that. Why else would she bury herself beneath the earth before her time and exist solely in a cloud of fantasy? It was too much up here, too much expectation, too much responsibility; how could she cope with it now when she couldn't even then? There was just too much to life and she was a coward.

She looked back at the woman, her clothing soiled, her figure much too thin, and the smile upon her decidedly commonplace face. Perhaps it was time now to live after existing for such a long time.

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_Please read and reveiw_

**A/N: **_I admit, i'm not fully sure what to make of this story if you can even call it that. i suppose it's my view of a true E/C relationship. Not nescissarily bad but not truely a life either. i don't know how to explain it, well i guess i did try (see above), but, i don't know. let me know what you think, be it good or ill. like all one shots, they make me nervous because they tend to be much more personally drawn from and well i'm curious if my view was understandable._


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